Where are the Letters HERO in Murderer?
by kelpieater
Summary: A little bit of a snippet of the Aftermath. If you're going to flame me, make it coherant.
1. A bit of Food for One's Thoughts

_It didn't matter, not anymore._

It wasn't the first time things had gone wrong--in fact, it had happened more than once. Harry snorted. And of course he had something to do with it, lucky as he was.

Everyone was being calm and tactful about it, but that was just their way of telling him, "You're a hero, we can't blame you. You saved us, we can't blame you. You're a murderer, we shouldn't kill you."

They didn't realize that all Harry really wanted was one drop of hatred, of jealousy, of something that told him he wasn't superimposed on every wizarding media source. Just one, to feed on, to let grow and spread, and thrive!

It hurt, in reality. Didn't people love to hate? Didn't someone love him enough to hate him? Or was he some nutter who had no better business than to stare aimlessly at passerby, waiting for a cry of "Murderer!You're no better than You-Know-Who!"

And Ron and Hermione, God he missed them, He couldn't even remember the last time they'd spoken to him without crying, without thanking him for letting their children grow up in a safe world.

Ginny had been much the same, her husband laughing and exclaiming every few seconds, 'I see why you were in love with him!"

They didn't see it wasn't Harry. They didn't see all that was left was a torn soul.


	2. The only criminal in unlikeliness

"OI! Wake up!"

Harry sat bolt upright, shielding his eyes against the light from his newly opened windows.

"Sarah, it's too early!" he complained, crawling out of bed and slamming closed each offensive window. "You could at least wake me like a normal person."

"True, but I'd never see you in your skivvies either," replied Sarah, smelling heavily of perfume.

Harry squinted over his shoulder at her, fumbling around his nightstand for his glasses.

"Sarah, what'd you do with them?"

The Frenchwoman smiled, sweeping into a curtsy, and throwing him the glasses.

"I cleaned them, " she proclaimed gladly. Harry raised both eyebrows as he raised them to his eyes. Drops of water and clumps of tissue clung to he lenses.

"Thanks…"

Sarah curtsied once more, and, when she left the room, Harry dug his wand out of the holster he'd procured and muttered a Cleaning Spell.

_It looks like she needs glasses_, he thought to himself. Maybe he should look into health care for her, and maybe personal hygiene as well; she'd worn that dress four times that week, and, even though it was pretty, he wished she would wash it and wear something else. But how was he supposed to know what to do for a lady?

_I need Hermione, Ginny, or Fleur for this._

The thought popped in his head in an unpleasant burst. Of course he couldn't see them—he was the "Chosen Murderer" or something of that nature and all he had heard, or ever would hear was what a " noble and overpowering Gryffindor" he was, whatever that was. The normal rubbish that would bring him too close to tears for comfort.

He wanted his friends back.

"Sir! I made—are you alright?"

Harry looked up at her, squinting back the tears.

"Brilliant, Sarah. What did you make?"

Sarah continued to stare concernedly at him, her face contorted into a look that mixed pity with affection.

"Crepes with marmalade, cinnamon, and sugar," she replied, still giving him that heart-wrenching look. Harry forced a smile onto his face, staring at the young Squib.

She had no clue of anything more than the fact she was working for a man who had stopped a chaotic war. She didn't see him as a murderer, or as a savior of some kind. She saw him as her "Sir" and it felt good.

"Are they good?"

Harry nodded, cutting up a crepe, remembering a time when he cooked pancakes and couldn't eat them because they stuck to the pan. He'd decided then to put out an ad for a young lady, skilled in housework, that enjoyed working alone.

"Sarah, how often do you take a bath?"

Sarah blushed.

"Not very often. I didn't see it in the ad, so I was scared to do so. I remembered one time I assumed something and ended up with a tree branch for a nose."

Harry furrowed his eyebrows, sizing her up, imagining her wearing in a set of silk robes, like the ones he'd seen in the laundry at the Burrow. They'd been Ginny's…

"Do you have any other clothes?"

She nodded, and then explained her reasoning.

"Sarah…I hired you for a reason. This is your home too."

_But I wish it were better. I wish I had Ginny. I wish…I wish I had children._

The thought shocked Harry. How could he think such a thing? Sarah…she was sweet, but…was he honestly thinking what he thought? Did he want children from a woman who could leave as easily as she'd come?

_No, you don't,_ answered the part in his brain that stayed hidden in the shadows. _You want to stay a bachelor and that's what you'll do._

_ Funny,_he thought to himself._ The last time I said that I had to kill someone._


	3. Not So Fun, Is It?

It was one of the funny things about Fridays; every single letter seemed to will itself to come on that day.

_And as usual about forty are from Ron and Hermione_, Harry told himself. _Why can't they just visit me?_

It was a drastic change of thought from the last time he'd seen them…when he'd shouted at them to leave him alone, to go forever. They said they forgave him, but he found that hard to believe.

He couldn't say he blamed them for wanting to stay away; they had children who were too young to understand what he'd done, to understand that he wished someone would throw something at him, that someone would spit in his face.

And yet he wondered if they'd understand better. Sarah did. He did.

_Don't start up with that children rubbish. Remember what happened the last time you thought about being normal…_

How could he forget? That was when he had to kill Voldemort, when he had to tell Ginny they couldn't be together. Why couldn't he have added temporarily to the sentence?

He needed to get out, really. He was going to drive himself to his own death with this type of thinking…

It was about twelve, and Harry was nervously sitting at a stool in the Leaky Cauldron, nursing a butterbeer. He'd discarded his glasses, hoping no one would recognize him. It was working, thanks to help from Sarah on the use of concealer; the lightning bolt scar on his forehead was covered along with several others he'd acquired while hunting Voldemort.

Harry did not see the pretty blonde woman who had came up behind him.

"What in the…? Are you out of your bloody mind, walking up behind someone like that?"

"I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, covering her mouth. "I thought you were…oh never mind."

Harry pulled out his wand and pointed it at his robes, muttering "Scourgify".

"Don't worry about it. I'm a bit on edge today."

_And every day since Hermione and Ron left,_ he told himself, sipping what remained and ordering another. The girl continued to stand there, obviously upset. Harry turned around and ordered another butterbeer for her.

Harry paid and began working his way through his second.

Noticing she was still standing behind him, he said, "I ordered that one right there for you, you know."

"Oh! Thank you… I-I don't normally like it when someone buys me a drink."

Harry grinned to himself. This poor woman was a complete nutter.

_Hark who's talking_.

"Have you ever heard this song before?"

"No, but my housekeeper likes to listen to one song they sing. Something about a paper man cutting himself apart."

"That's 'Forever' by Papa Roach. Both worlds seem to get a load out of them. This song is called 'The Fire'."

Harry listened to her sing, becoming thoroughly interested. She seemed sweet and funny, dramatically gesturing through every lyric, her voice resonating through every inch of the pub. Some people were staring, but most were rooting her on.

"That was…well, I can't quite describe it. I've heard it sang by Sarah a few times, I'm sure, but I couldn't make out the words. I think she was singing it in French."

"Oh, really? My girlfriend sings it to me all the time."

Harry choked on a gulp of butterbeer. The girl didn't seem to notice.

"Only she sings it in Hebrew and Arabic. I don't have a clue what she's saying over half of the time!"

"I'm sorry if this offends you, but you don't look like the kind of girl…"

The girl laughed. "Well, you're right. I just love seeing the looks on men's faces when I say that. My roommate does sing it to me, though," she added as an afterthought. "It's a bit creepy to be honest."

Harry shook his head. He should've known she was joking with him. It hadn't honestly been that long…

Yes it has. You know it has. Stop telling yourself otherwise.

Well I still should know…

_My God, man! When you were wish a woman you couldn't figure out anything!_

"So…if you aren't what you said you were, than what are you?"

"Single and heartbroken," she replied, tracing the rim of her butterbeer with her finger.

"Is it any different?" asked Harry, sliding his hand over hers, his heart in his throat. She pulled away, giving him a dirty look.

"Any different from what?"

"Do women feel the same as men do?"

She continued to eye him suspiciously, but replied, "I suppose so. We aren't completely different species."

Harry moved his band back to where it had been before he extended it, her frosty tone penetrating his brain.

"So," he continued, moving away from the uncomfortable subject. "What do you think about Harry Potter?"

She shrugged, taking a long draft of butterbeer.

"I don't have the same view as everyone else," she replied. "Everyone else is so enamored of him, while I personally would like to deck him in the mouth."

"Why?" asked Harry, starting to smile.

"Why? What do you mean 'why?'" she asked aggressively. "Oh no, don't tell me, your one of his roadies? So obviously you want to know why!"

"I'm not one of his roadies."

"Alright, then. I'm a friend of girl he used to date, Romilda Vane—"

"—He didn't date Romilda Vane. That's her showing off. He only dated twice. The first was a bloody flop from the beginning and the second time he didn't want the girl to get hurt."

_Not that it changed anything_, he told himself. _I still hurt her._

"Oh…well, that changes everything. I mean, I'm not going to hero-worship him, but…" She shrugged, and finished off her butterbeer.

"It's been nice having someone to talk to who doesn't question my every thought."

"You're welcome. But I think I did question you."

"You did it nicely, though. What's your name, anyways?"

"Um…I don't think I could tell you…" Harry said nervously. "And I think I'd better get going. Maybe we'll see each other some other time?" he asked hopefully.

"I don't think so," she said coldly. "I've heard that too many times and it always mean you're never coming back, so.."

"Oh…okay… I'm sorry about that. Um, my name is…well…"

"How you just tell me your middle name? I know not everyone likes their first."

"Why? What's your first name?"

She frowned and replied in a mortified voice, "Eunice. My middle name is Augusta, which I would prefer to be called, if you please!"

Harry laughed. "I don't think I could stand to torture you like that!"

"Haha. My mum says I treat being called Eunice like being under the Cruciatus Curse! I mean, honestly I—Are you okay?"

Harry shook his head, "The Cruciatus Curse isn't something to joke around about. It doesn't hurt—it destroys all other feeling. You don't have a clue where you are, where you're going. If anyone talks, all you hear is noise, if that."

Augusta stared at him, horrified. "I'm sorry, I've never heard it from that point of view. All I've ever heard is that…I'm sorry…"

"Don't worry about it," he told her. "You're lucky you've never had to experience it."

He flashed her a small smile, hoping she would lighten up. It didn't work.

"I heard that Harry Potter went through the same thing—and he was only fourteen! According to a rumor, it happened two more times when he went chasing after He Who Must Not Be Named," she added.

Harry shook his head.

"It happened eight times."

"What?! That's-that's horrible! How could he take that?"

"He does seem to have that effect on people."

"Actually you seemed to put it in that perspect—"

Augusta stopped short and stared him dead in the face, her face disbelieving. Harry tried hard to keep his gaze steady, but the accusing look in her eyes forced him to look away.

"You-you—!"

Harry turned away and Apparated back to his house, where he collapsed, exhausted, onto his bed.

He'd tried, hard too. It hadn't been enough. That left room for only one thing. Sadly, it would break his heart just as much as meeting Augusta had; he was going to see Ron and Hermione to apologize.


End file.
